The Legacy
by Sunoko
Summary: To this day, I think Vash is a very silly man.


_"When I grow up, I want to be an old woman_

_An old old old old old old old old woman"_

_Michelle Shocked, "When I Grow Up"_

_~*~_

They say that in every generation, there is some great event that rocks the foundations of the population to the core. Through my long lifetime, I've born witness to several such events, and all of them surrounding one man: Vash the Stampede. But as shocking as his exploits during my youth were, the one that affected me most actually took place when I was ninety, frail, and grey.

I had started my day as though it had been any other, that day the news came. Granted, ever since my fall a while back it's been harder to get up out of my bed, but I've never been one to let a little pain stop me. Anyone who knew me could tell you the same, and if they don't, well, then whomever it is and I shall have A Few Words. My bones may creak and my legs may shake, but I can still manage the trigger of one of my derringers. My dear neighbor John and his lovely wife help me out a lot. He puts the newspaper right on my front stoop so I don't need to hobble down the drive to get my post. She cooks and they dine with me every Saturday, and I always look forward to it. When you are as old as I, such routine becomes something you cling to with desperation. I've always been a bit of a stickler for routine, and taken comfort in it, so it's not surprising that change now upsets me.

Not that you'd know, given the way my roaring twenties passed.

I had sat in my armchair with my tea and the paper when the headline stopped me cold. Vash the Stampede Is Dead! proclaimed the newspaper in black, bold letters. It had a photograph and everything. I still have that, you know. I am not a pack-rat by any means of the imagination, but that newspaper I kept. I read the article three times over before the notion that Vash had been killed trying to rescue hostages held by bank robbers really sank in. He had probably done that a hundred thousand times, or more, but this time he was caught by a stray bullet. Bang. Could have happened to anyone, I suppose. I just never thought it would have happened to him.

In the picture, which was full color of the gristly scene (the media so loves murder), Vash looked exactly as he always did: not a day over twenty-five. His hair was completely black, though. Maybe that was why he had been just a bit slower than usual. Maybe that was why he had miscalculated. Or maybe, just maybe, he had finally gotten tired of it all, and decided to go out a hero. Considering how vilified he had been, it wouldn't surprise me if that had been a slight part of it. But I doubt it. Vash regarded life too strongly to ever succumb to suicide.

Perhaps the strangest thing about that day was what I felt at hearing the news. The first thought that crossed my mind was "I can't believe I actually outlived the bastard," followed promptly by "He looks exactly the same." I am not a vain woman. I earned all of the wrinkles on my face, and I'm rather fond of them, in a perverse way. They are my scars for a life well lived, the signs that I have survived everything and anything thrown my way. I am proud to bear them. But seeing Vash looking so, well, _young_...it was a bit of a shock. And I didn't feel old looking at him lying there in the photo. No, actually, I felt _his_ age all the more distinctly. At least I look like I've spent years on this planet.

Surprise came next. Vash was always too _alive_ to be killed. He was not human: age didn't touch him, therefore death shouldn't have, either. To a large degree, he had a rather hedonistic view of life; each day was spent searching out simple pleasures. That included things like fresh donuts to playing a game in the streets with children. And it included believing in the inherent goodness in all folk, and holding life, love, and family sacred. Vash loved people, and his natural gregariousness, absolute flamboyance, and genuine sincerity meant that people were drawn to him like c-cents to a magnet. He could be glib, ridiculous, and absolutely insane at times, but he did so with such a zeal that it was impossible not to be awed by him. That quality of being so very, completely, and utterly alive had made me love him despite myself. And I think that his gusto contributed to his legend. No normal person constantly lives with such enthusiastic ideals. I certainly didn't, and I had lived with him for most of my life.

Then I felt guilt.

Guilt that I was sad, but not torn apart. A bit of guilt that I hadn't stuck with him all through my life the way I did when I was but twenty with my head stuffed with silliness. He was my very first love, after all. He and I had been through heaven and hell together in what was arguably the most exciting time of my life. And, since this is my memoir and I can say whatever I please, I confess that I felt some guilt that I had been the one to end things.

But only a little. We had said our final goodbyes a lifetime ago, after all. I had been too old, too jaded, too hungry for consistency to maintain the nomadic lifestyle I shared with him when I was younger. He had always been so very loath to share his feelings, too stubborn to share his burden. When it had only been he, me, and the desert around us, his reticence took its toll. We two had sacrificed much together, and after a number of years, the sacrifice had been too great for me to bear. And he had understood, had accepted.

For a while, he stayed in touch, and I would get trinkets and small post cards from different places around the world. Places that I had seen once, with him, and sometimes with Milly. For a while, I had tried to write back, but Vash was as hard to catch as the wind. I think he almost liked it that way. When the mail slowed and finally died altogether, I wasn't surprised. At the time, I had thought that Vash had wanted to move on with his life. Now, I wonder if he had wanted me to move on with mine. (And I did, for the record. Even though I was well into my forties, I met and eventually married a man. His children liked me well enough, and I got to fulfill that maternal role that had been gnawing at my soul for so long. Though I knew Vash would not come to my wedding, I thought I saw him at my husband's funeral. It might have been my imagination, though.)

But the thing I felt the most guilty for was that I couldn't stop feeling a bit happy for him. Vash may not have ever found the peace he was so desperately searching for in life, but I knew he would find it in death. When you are as old as I, death is not frightening. It is a comfort, knowing that the weariness of life shall soon be lifted. I read a book once that described death like going to bed after a long day of work. What a long day that must have been for Vash, and how nice the bed must have felt.

I've seen too many years and too many things to disbelieve in the divine. I am certain that such a benevolent power knows Vash as intimately as I have, even more so. And if I feel that the peace and happiness of the afterlife is certainly the only thing he is destined for, then so must any deity. He fought harder for peace than anyone I know, and believed so desperately in the goodness of those around him that it is only just that he be rewarded. Knowing that such was Vash's fate, that he was, after all of his restless, fruitless years of searching, finally at peace, how could I help but feel happy for him? And how could I help but to feel guilty of that happiness? What was my sadness at the passing of one very great man, one whom I had the privilege of knowing and loving, compared to the peace he now had?

It is strange, though, that I am the last one remaining of we four. I never thought it would end up this way, but many things did not go as I originally planned. Some wound up being for the better.

I hadn't been able to make it to his funeral, which had been a very private affair held on that old ship. Luida had invited me, but there are days I can barely walk, let alone travel. I felt guilt for that one, too, but age cannot be helped, and I had enough reminders of him, of us, without seeing the few faces I recognized (or that were still alive) from his past. Luida is almost as old as I am; I knew she understood. Vash would have understood, too. If he were alive, he would have forbidden me to go. Even now that thought makes me smile a bit.

And even in death, he was, as always, concerned with ensuring the well-being of those around him. Though he and I had not really spoken for forty some-odd years, I received a box from Luida full of things he intended for me. Small things, things that had importance for the two of us alone: a chipped mug I had thought long gone, empty bullet casings, a few feathers, several slightly crumpled photographs, a broken watch, a handful of brightly colored pebbles, several thousand double dollars and a note, written in his strong hand, addressed to me. It was short and succinct, stating only that he was paying me back with interest for all the times I had spotted him money.

Sometimes, Vash was very good at understatement. I understood his message, and to this day think him a very silly man.

That strange mix of a sense of loss, of regret, of melancholy, nostalgia, and happiness pervaded my home for several weeks after the headlines proclaiming Vash's death had ceased. John and his wife were good about cheering me; they sat with me most evenings just to talk. Sometimes the conversation turned to Vash, others, it did not. And as the weeks turned to months, the feelings dimmed and faded as the worries of day to day life took center stage. Routine is something clung to for a reason, at my age.

When all is said and done, I will keep living as I have until the twilight of my life finally turns to night. I will drink tea in the morning and read the newspaper, I will nap in the peace of the quiet afternoon, and I will eat dinner with John and his wife on Saturdays. I will listen to the radio croon and enchant me with dramas. I will write to my husband's children, and I will patiently wait for their slow responses.

And in the evening, when the weather is nice and when my creaks and pains are manageable, I will sit on my front porch swing and watch the suns light the dusky sky on fire with colors. I will remember the lonely nights in the desert with Vash, and think that they hadn't been that lonely, not really.

~*~

Author's Notes: I don't own Trigun, nor Michelle Shocked's work. The inspiration for this fic primarily came from chats with friends, and the latest fic Lady Shadowcat wrote. I liked the idea that Meryl outlived everyone, but then, I like Meryl.


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